‘Thank you, Sir.’ Rath rolled up the periodical and got to his feet. ‘One more thing,’ he said from the door. ‘The dead man from Dortmund – did he have links with the catering industry? Or was he found in a lift like Lamkau?’
‘He was a miner at the Zollern Colliery, found on site, dead in his bed.’
16
At least Rath didn’t have to say anything right away. When he returned to his men, Charly still hadn’t materialised. No one had heard anything from her since they’d left the office together around an hour before, but there was no way her talk with Dettmann could have lasted this long. He lit a cigarette and wondered whether he would have to give her a public dressing-down, if only to show his colleagues there were no favourites. He couldn’t overlook the fact that she had failed to inform the team of her movements. Had she paid Narcotics a visit? She ought to have left that to him. His colleagues would hardly have taken a male cadet seriously, so God alone knew how they’d react to a woman.
‘How’d it go with Buddha?’ Gräf asked.
‘Superintendent Gennat regrets not being able to supply us with additional officers, but would like a CID employee to work undercover in the Haus Vaterland kitchen.’
Gräf was unimpressed. ‘We’re supposed to scrub vegetables now?’
‘I wouldn’t be averse, providing we get to keep the wage,’ Lange said. ‘With our salaries, we need all the help we can get.’
‘It can’t be any one of us,’ Rath replied. ‘Our faces are known there.’
‘That leaves only Fräulein Ritter,’ Lange said.
‘Exactly who Gennat suggested!’
‘Poor Charly!’ Gräf couldn’t conceal a grin. ‘Finally gets a job with CID and still winds up in the kitchen.’
Rath found this less than amusing, since he was the one who had to break the news.
‘At least she knows her way around the kitchen,’ he heard Lange say. ‘You wouldn’t be able to use a man there. Unless you know anyone who can cook?’
‘One more thing,’ Rath said, in a tone that silenced the two jokers. ‘Gennat thinks we might be dealing with a serial killer.’
The phrase could choke any light-heartedness at police headquarters.
‘What?’ Gräf said disbelievingly, but with a hint of cheer still in his face. ‘You’re not serious. Where else is our killer meant to have struck?’
‘Somewhere out in the Ruhrgebiet.’ Rath pointed to the journal he had placed on the table. ‘Buddha came upon the case in the Monatshefte. I’m sceptical myself.’
‘You’re suggesting we ignore a tip from on high?’
‘I’m suggesting we don’t rush into anything. We’re under express orders to investigate discreetly. First I’d like to read the article properly. We’ll talk about it after lunch.’
Gräf nodded. ‘My stomach’s already rumbling. There’s beef liver in the canteen today.’
‘Count me in,’ Lange said. ‘How about you, Gereon?’
‘Liver’s not for me.’ Rath stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Ask Erika if she wants to join you. I’ll get something from Aschinger.’
With his colleagues gone, Rath leafed through the journal to the article in question. Mysterious drowning, the headline ran, sequence of events unexplained. As was often the case in the Monatshefte, the article was written in matter-of-fact, almost bureaucratic German, no livelier than the language used in police statements, albeit underscored by a pseudo-academic, schoolmasterly tone. He remembered now why he read it so rarely.
The man from Dortmund gazed innocently from the page: Hans Wawerka, found dead in his bed on Easter morning.
The investigation left the reader in no doubt that the miner had suffered a violent end, even if questions persisted everywhere else. The pathological report had ruled death by drowning, although whether it was simply a near-drowning, as Gennat suspected, was of secondary importance. Of greater interest was the fact that the Dortmund pathologist had also discovered a puncture site, likewise in the jugular vein, but neglected to pursue the matter, or, at least, failed to perform a blood analysis. Gennat’s suspicions regarding the competence of Prussian CID forces outside Berlin were clearly based on more than just arrogance. Could they establish the presence of tubocurarine in a three-month-old corpse? He would have to ask Dr Karthaus. Either way, it was time to dig the poor bastard up.
He looked at the article and again at the photo. Wawerka was dead, with water in his lungs and a puncture site on his neck, but everything else, as with Lamkau, was a mystery. There were no signs of a struggle or, indeed, of any suspects that were still alive. A Communist newspaper vendor, with whom the dead man had been in conflict, could be ruled out, since he had been killed the day before in an apparently politically motivated arson attack on his kiosk.
Hans Wawerka had just turned thirty-three, and lived alone in a small attic apartment in Dortmund-Bövinghausen. He was a miner at the Zollern Colliery, and a reclusive bachelor. Herbert Lamkau, on the other hand, was in his mid-forties, a successful businessman and father.
The photos gave even less away. Wawerka had the powerful physique of a worker, tall and muscular, whereas Lamkau was what some might call a ‘weakling’. Only the determination in his eyes, staring out from his driving licence, testified to his strength. In contrast, Hans Wawerka gazed almost naively into the camera lens.
They were as different as chalk and cheese, and yet they had suffered the same fate, one in Dortmund, the other in Berlin. Were it not for the striking similarities between the pathological reports, Rath would never have suspected the two deaths were linked. The article in the Monatshefte concentrated primarily on the mysterious aspects of the case though, like their Berlin counterparts, the Dortmund officers had neither a lead nor a convincing explanation. Something else the cases shared.
By the time Rath had finished his last Overstolz, Charly still hadn’t appeared, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. Kirie desperately needed walking and, besides, he had to buy more cigarettes.
‘Come on,’ he said, reaching for hat and lead.
After a lap of Alexanderplatz, where the new tram tracks were being laid, he purchased a Bockwurst from a street hawker outside the train station. While Kirie ate or, rather, devoured the sausage, he turned his thoughts to Charly.
Disappearing for lunch wasn’t a good look at the Castle, no one knew that better than Charly, who had always warned him against it. All the more strange, therefore, that she hadn’t reappeared. Should he be worried? But, then, what could have happened? She’d probably just run in to Wilhelm Böhm, and the DCI had taken his one-time favourite stenographer out to lunch.
To his great surprise, everyone was back in the office when he returned half an hour later. Erika Voss was on the telephone, and Charly sat at her table studying a file as if nothing had happened. She seemed strangely pensive, almost absent, when she greeted him. If her coolness were merely an act, she was making a damn good fist of it. It was in marked contrast with Kirie, who, no sooner than she was untied, licked Charly’s hands and curled up under her table.
When he rounded them up in his office, she still seemed a little remote. ‘We missed you, Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, sternly. ‘Were you successful, at least?’
Charly looked as if she were about to start bawling. Surely she must know all this was just a front; a role that he, like her, was obliged to play.
‘I was in Narcotics,’ she said.
‘Then Dettmann couldn’t help?’
She made a gesture that might as well have been a shiver as a shake of the head, and stared right through him. Her list of known drug traffickers wasn’t especially long, and two were in jail.
‘Detective Gräf will look into it,’ he said, passing the list on. ‘A pretty dubious bunch. No kind of work for a woman.’ He was afraid she might think he was being condescending, but she barely reacted. ‘I have a different assignment for you,’ he said. ‘Superintendent Gennat would like us to carry out an undercover operation in Haus Va
terland.’ He cleared his throat, thinking how much he’d like to wipe the smirk off Reinhold Gräf’s face. ‘In short: I’d like you to present yourself for work in the central kitchen tomorrow. There are a few vacancies. We might even be able to smuggle you in without the help of management – the fewer people who know about the operation, the better . . .’
Against expectation, Charly’s face brightened. Finally she seemed to be with them. ‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘They’ll never take me for a police officer.’
Rath leafed through the Monatshefte until he found Hans Wawerka’s face. He showed it to the room and briefly recapped Gennat’s theory for Charly’s benefit.
‘Isn’t there usually a sexual dimension to serial killers’ crimes?’ she said. ‘I don’t see one here.’
She was on the ball again. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Correct, Fräulein Ritter, but that doesn’t mean we should rule out the possibility. There have been a number of serial killings that haven’t been sexually motivated. I need only remind you of the cinema killer. Perhaps there’s a link between Wawerka and Lamkau we’re not seeing. We should continue to pursue all avenues. Given the mysterious circumstances, we should concentrate on the motive. That’s still the quickest route to the perpetrator. Once we get them, they can explain the “how”.’
Lange and Charly nodded, but Gräf looked as if he had been struck by lightning. When he finally moved, it was only for his mouth to form a question. ‘What did you say the dead man was called?’
‘Wawerka.’ Rath checked the journal. ‘Hans Wawerka.’
Gräf turned white as a sheet.
‘What’s the matter?’
Gräf didn’t respond, but proceeded to his desk where he rummaged in one of the boxes he had seized from the Lamkau office. He returned to Rath’s table with two envelopes. ‘Here,’ he said, fumbling for a yellowed death notice that someone must have cut from the newspaper. ‘From Lamkau’s private desk. It was among the other letters. Sorry it took me so long to twig.’
Rath looked at the thin paper and couldn’t believe his eyes. A simple death notice, probably the cheapest available. No bible quotation, just a few words:
We mourn the loss of our faithful colleague
JOHANN WAWERKA
* 14th December 1898 Marggrabowa
† 27th March 1932 Dortmund-Bövinghausen
The staff of the Zollern II/IV Colliery
17
The new Aschinger was brighter than its predecessor in the former Königstadt Theatre, whose demolition could be observed through the large windows of Alexanderhaus. Despite the light, something of the old building’s ambience had been retained. Most importantly, however, the menu – and the prices – were the same, meaning the Alexanderhaus branch was as busy as its previous incarnation, perhaps more so, for the new building attracted curious passers-by. It certainly took them long enough to find a table.
Rath was happy to be alone with her again after the chaos of the afternoon. The discovery that there was a link between Lamkau and the second victim had sent a rush through the group. Gräf was crestfallen that he hadn’t thought of the death notice sooner, and wouldn’t be consoled.
Rath had sent him to work through Charly’s list of drug traffickers, before dispatching Lange to Edith Lamkau in Tempelhof, and requesting that the forensic technicians from I Division join him in his office. Lamkau’s drawers had contained a second letter, with a further death notice, this one mourning the loss of a certain August Simoneit, who had died aged forty-seven on 11th May in Wittenberge – though not, it appeared, in violent circumstances.
He had asked Charly to investigate the circumstances surrounding the third man’s death, though this proved trickier than anticipated. There had been no police inquiry, nor was Simoneit’s name known to the local CID. It was a poor return, especially since Charly had appeared determined to prove how good she was, something neither Rath nor the others had ever doubted. The only person who had any doubts was Charly herself, and Rath couldn’t help wondering if it went deeper than her inability to trace the source of tubocurarine.
The presence of Erika Voss made it impossible to clarify matters at the Castle, but he hoped it was some comfort for Charly to know that his own inquiries had also stalled. Herbert Lamkau hadn’t received the first death notice from the Zollern Colliery, either from management or the works council, and Rath had failed to get hold of the investigating officer in the Wawerka case, reaching only his secretary. Lange, too, had returned from Tempelhof empty-handed. The widow Lamkau had known nothing about the death notices, and been equally flummoxed by the names Wawerka and August Simoneit.
Charly would just have to get used to the fact that most of what they did in CID was a waste of time.
At long last he had sent his team home, only to intercept Charly outside the train station and invite her to Aschinger. Somehow it felt more like he had ensnared her, as if, without his intervention, she’d have simply gone back to Spenerstrasse; as if, after a single day, she had completely forgotten about their engagement. On the way to Aschinger she had only wanted to discuss work.
Now they sat at the window, Kirie curled up under their table, gazing out at the ruins of the Königstadt Theatre, and the last, forlorn-looking, pieces of wall. A solitary washbasin stood roughly ten metres above the relieving arch. He was considering his opening gambit when Charly broke the silence. ‘The question is why?’ she said, and it wasn’t clear if she were speaking to him, or to herself.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Why make such heavy weather of it?’ She turned from the window. ‘There must be some reason to first paralyse, then drown your victims. Or, at least, let them think they’ll drown.’
Rath didn’t want to talk about work.
‘Perhaps he’s trying to tell us something. Like with these death notices. It’s a message.’
‘A message for whom? The police?’ Rath was shorter than he intended, but she didn’t seem to notice.
‘Then we’d have got them too. No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a message for the victim, saying their time is up.’
Why was she pretending everything was fine? He couldn’t take it any longer. ‘What happened today?’ he asked.
She looked surprised for a moment. ‘What do you mean, “what happened?”’ Her smile was so artificial it could have been glued on.
‘You don’t stop by the office after visiting Dettmann, you spend an age with Narcotics, and who knows what you’re up to during lunch. And then, wham, you’re back at your desk making a face like your goldfish has just died. It isn’t normal.’
‘Do you mind telling me what passes for normal at police headquarters? You, of all people?’
‘I just want to know what happened. I was worried. You should have come back when you realised Dettmann couldn’t help. I’d have been better off talking to Narcotics. Did they mock you, or make some stupid remark? Don’t take it personally, they do the same with all new recruits.’
She was about to say something but stopped suddenly. When he saw her face, Rath started. There was something in her gaze that shook him to the core. Something numb, something dead. Her otherwise warm, brown eyes looked frozen. He knew his Charly. She only looked like that when she was losing her temper, or trying desperately to conceal her feelings, but there was no outburst, nothing. She stared at the table as if trying to pull herself together.
‘Sorry,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘I didn’t mean to sound harsh, I’m just worried. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, but her voice told a different story.
‘Charly! Has something happened? Is it about how I was today?’ She shook her head. ‘All that bossing you around was just a front. You know that, don’t you?’ She nodded, still incapable of getting the words out. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. You’re really scaring me here.’
She shook her head as if trying to jerk her face awake.
He took her by the hand, as if asking her to dance, only there was
no dance floor or music. Even so, she stood up and he took her in his arms. ‘What’s the matter, girl?’ he whispered in her ear. A silent sob heaved through her body. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, stroking her head, and, when she wouldn’t stop: ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ repeating it over and over like an incantation.
Finally the shaking stopped and she prised herself loose. She looked at him through mascara-smudged eyes before lowering her gaze and disappearing inside the ladies’ toilet. When she returned to the table, tears dried and face newly made-up, she managed to tell him what had happened.
18
Hackhackhackhackhack.
Movements so quick they were almost impossible to follow, and with that the latest onion was chopped into tiny pieces.
‘There, d’you see? Hold it like this, and Bob’s your uncle. Keep the knife pointing down, bish bash bosh, and mind your fingers when you flip it back.’
The red-headed boy couldn’t have been more than eighteen, but he chopped with such speed and precision he could have been in the circus. Charly had rarely felt so clumsy. She tried to hold the knife and onion the way he had shown her, and soon realised she was making progress, even if she was still a long way off his greased-lightning pace.
‘There you are.’ He had been assigned to her by the head chef, Unger. ‘By the time you get through this lot, it’ll feel like you’ve been doing it your whole life.’
This lot must have been a good fifty kilograms of onions, an absolute mountain at any rate. Charly had never seen so many in her life. The boy gave a wink of encouragement and left her to it.
She set about her task with a plucky grin. The tears started immediately, but she was loath to follow his advice – ‘just keep your peepers closed’ – for fear she’d be heading home bereft of her fingers. Besides, her eyes only burned more when she closed them. She decided to let the tears flow, and tried to work out what she was doing through the watery haze.
The Fatherland Files Page 12